


The Ambush

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: The Ambush series [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-23 16:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14336733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: “So,” said Ilsa, grinning. “This is officially an ambush. You two should be together, and everyone can see it except you. Your dinner’s in the oven and we’ll be back in a couple of hours. Talk, that’s an order!” And with a cheeky wave she was gone, slamming her front door and scurrying up the path after Nick, leaving a stunned Strike and Robin to stare after her, and then at each other, in the sudden uncomfortable silence of the Herberts’ living room.





	1. The Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic in many years, and my first for these guys. I imagined they’d not get together without a push...

“So,” said Ilsa, grinning. “This is officially an ambush. You two should be together, and everyone can see it except you. Your dinner’s in the oven and we’ll be back in a couple of hours. Talk, that’s an order!” And with a cheeky wave she was gone, slamming her front door and scurrying up the path after Nick, leaving a stunned Strike and Robin to stare after her, and then at each other, in the sudden uncomfortable silence of the Herberts’ living room.

  
Strike looked away, then down at the floor. The room felt as though it had physically shrunk. The air was thick with awkwardness. Time stretched, each second taking an eternity. Robin broke first. “Er, more wine, I think,” she said shakily, picking up the glass she had barely started and heading for the kitchen. She busied herself opening and closing the fridge in a pretend search for the bottle which was right there in the door, and then checking the oven which did indeed contain a shepherd’s pie as promised. The timer was counting down, 45 long minutes still to go, and her heart sank at the thought of how to fill those minutes.

  
She jumped as Strike spoke suddenly behind her. “Going out for a smoke,” he said, waving a pack of cigarettes at her as he skirted carefully round to the back door. In a moment he was gone, and Robin’s racing heart slowed a little. She had a few minutes now to gather her thoughts. What on earth had Ilsa done this for? And what would happen now?

  
...


	2. Strike

Outside, Strike took a deep drag on his cigarette and seethed quietly to himself. In all the years he had known them, Nick and Ilsa had never meddled in his life like this. Not even during the most turbulent of the Charlotte years, when surely they must have wanted to tell him to just end things once and for all. Why now? This forcing of things out into the open risked blowing up his partnership with Robin and his business. He had seen the look of horror on Robin’s face as Isla left, watched as she had bolted straight for the kitchen. And in a few minutes he was going to have to go back inside and... talk, and try to sort out with words something that he didn’t know how he could even start to express.

It was his fault for allowing things to get out of hand, he acknowledged. Since Robin and Matthew had split up, he had allowed himself to drift closer to Robin in tiny increments. From the night she told him in the Tottenham over drinks, tremulous but relieved, that her marriage was over, that she had found a room in a nice flat share with a girl she hoped she could become friends with, he had allowed a tiny sliver of hope to take root in his heart. At first he tried to crush it or ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away, and eventually he just left it there. He had watched over the months as Robin slowly relaxed, began to seem more... herself, he thought, although he had never known her without Matthew. And slowly things between them had changed. Sometimes when he glanced up at her when they were going over evidence together, he would find her looking back at him, and once or twice instead of hastily looking away he had smiled, and she had smiled back in a way that made his heart lurch. Once she had put her hand on his arm to draw his attention to a suspect they were following, and her touch had lingered and he hadn’t drawn away.

And then the inevitable had happened. A case finished, a big bill invoiced and paid, a couple of celebratory drinks at the Tottenham (did every important step in their relationship have to happen in that pub? It would seem so. Perhaps he should start avoiding the place once this debacle was over) and suddenly something really had changed. She looked the most beautiful he had ever seen her, seemed to positively glow, her blue-grey eyes sparkling and her red-gold hair glinting in the soft pub lights, and he just couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was utterly captivated, and he sensed that she knew it, but for just a while he let his guard down and allowed himself to go with the magic of the evening. Conversation had flowed easily, and before he knew it the pub was closing and Robin was a little tipsy and giggly. He had walked her to the Tube, and she had tucked her arm in his, and he had allowed her to. Why? He knew it was wrong, and dangerous, but the Doom Bar warm in his stomach and the magic of the evening clouded his judgement, and where was the harm in a short walk arm in arm? She felt so good, so warm, so... right, tucked up next to him. And when they reached the station it was the most natural thing in the world to just lean down and kiss her. He told himself at the time that he had only intended to kiss her cheek (had he?), but she had turned her head at the last moment and kissed him full on the mouth, warm and sweet and soft, and he was lost. He found his hand reaching up to cradle her head gently, fingers in that beautiful silky rose gold hair, and her hands had pulled at the lapels of his jacket to bring him closer, her mouth opening for him and her tongue meeting his. A blissful moment, and then Strike had come to his senses, pulled away, apologised (why? She was the one who had turned it into something he hadn’t intended, he told himself...) and she had blushed, and giggled, and smiled prettily at him and wobbled off to her train. He had gone home with the taste of her on his lips and the feel of her in his arms, and they had never spoken of it again. On Monday she had breezed into the office as though nothing had happened, and he almost began to wonder if it even had. He had been careful to keep things neutral, friendly, and she had as well, and to his amazement it hadn’t even felt awkward. Until now.  
...


	3. Robin

Robin had taken refuge in the loo, to try to compose herself and splash some cold water on her cheeks and calm the blush of colour there. Her hands were still shaking, she noted. How could she even begin this discussion that they were now going to be forced to have? She was going to have to confess to Strike that she had confided in Ilsa, that Ilsa knew about the kiss and knew how Robin felt. But then that meant she was going to have to tell Strike of her feelings as well. He would know that Ilsa wouldn’t have set up this ambush without being sure that it would be successful. For a moment Robin allowed herself to dwell on that possibility. What would life look like if she were to become Strike’s... girlfriend? Lover? She was, if she were forced to admit it, aware that he was attracted to her too. But the thought of beginning a relationship with her boss, who had been with beautiful Charlotte for so many years, and since then had had liaisons with the equally beautiful Ciara Porter and Elin... sophisticated women, sure of themselves and no doubt very modern in their outlook and attitude to relationships. Robin knew she would seem gauche and awkward by comparison. She had only ever been with Matthew, and they had never been particularly adventurous in bed, and the thought of trying to pretend to be a modern woman, confident in her sexuality and able to express her wants and desires, terrified her.

...

Robin had woken on the Saturday morning with a mild headache and an awareness that the last glass of wine had probably been a bad idea. Then the memory of the kiss had flooded back and she froze, and lay in bed... mortified? Delighted? Excited? Confused? Ashamed? All of the above. Suddenly she felt that she had known for months that there was an attraction between her and Strike, though she had ignored it with all her might as being too confusing, too scary, too full of consequences. So what now? Had he intended to kiss her, or had he allowed it to be her move? She really wasn’t sure. It had seemed so natural just to turn in to him, and then suddenly it was happening and she was enjoying it, and then just as suddenly it was over and she was heading for her train. Heat flooded her body as she remembered the feel of his mouth, of his stubble against her top lip, of his big hand, so gentle in her hair, almost reverent...

The ping of her phone on the bedside table startled her. For a wild moment she imagined it was Strike. They could meet, go for coffee or a stroll, talk, one thing could lead to another... Stop it! She told herself firmly.

It was Ilsa. “Meet in John Lewis at ten? xx” and Robin remembered the longstanding plan they’d had to go shopping. She had a feeling Ilsa knew, without being told, that Robin had only really known Matthew’s friends in London, and had been a little lonely since they had split up. Work and the unpredictable hours helped, so that she wasn’t spending long evenings alone in the flat while Angela was out with her boyfriend, but the occasional work-free weekend stretched out, long and hard to fill, and she felt a rush of warmth towards Ilsa who had suggested a girly day out shopping and lunching. “See you there! xx” she texted back, and got up and headed to the shower.

Barely two hours of actual shopping happened. They found an Italian restaurant for lunch, and Ilsa ordered a bottle of wine despite Robin’s protests, pleased with their little accumulation of purchases but even more so with the ease of Robin’s company. She could quite see why Strike got on so well with his partner. She was so comfortable to be around, and easy to chat to. Conversation flowed over lunch, and the first glass of wine each went down well. Robin had weakly accepted a glass, unwilling to admit that she still felt a tiny bit rough from the night before, and actually found that it helped a lot. I must not make a habit of this, she thought, drinking to get rid of the remnants of a hangover.

“So, how’s Corm?” Ilsa asked as they studied the dessert menu. It was an innocent question, but Robin, who had been trying to choose between the chocolate torte and a sticky toffee pudding, suddenly found an image in her head of her boss just the previous evening, big and strong and warm, wrapped around her with his mouth on hers and his fingers in her hair.

“Er, he’s fine,” she stuttered, but she knew the pause and her flaming cheeks had given her away. Ilsa was staring at her like a cat with a mouse in its sights. A slow smile spread across her face at Robin’s discomfort.

“Has something happened between you two?” she demanded, delight in her voice. She had long harboured hope that something would develop between her old friend and his new partner. She liked the Cormoran she saw when he was with Robin, relaxed and happy and at ease in a way he had never been with Charlotte, who had seemed to live her life wound up like a coiled spring and causing the same tension in everyone around her. And now maybe... but Robin was doing her best to brush away the possibility.

“Not really...” she said. Ilsa raised an eyebrow.

“Define ‘not really’,” she said, grinning.

“Well,” said Robin, “we sort of kissed. It wasn’t like that!” She cried, seeing Ilsa’s delighted expression. “We were celebrating finishing a big case and I was a bit tipsy and it was supposed to be a kiss on the cheek but it sort of missed...” Oh, great, she thought, now I’m implying to one of Cormoran’s best friends that he instigated it, when I think he really was only going to kiss my cheek (do I?) and it was my fault. “It wasn’t anything, really,” she finished lamely.

“No, of course not, that’s why you’ve gone bright red thinking about it,” said Ilsa, grinning even more broadly and reaching for the bottle to top up their glasses. “I’m going to be needing all the details!”

Robin sighed, and suddenly, unexpectedly, found that tears sprang to her eyes. I’m overtired after a long case, she thought, lots of late nights, and then the confusion of feelings over the kiss. That’s all it is, she told herself. But she knew it wasn’t true. Her feelings for her partner had been slowly growing for months, she realised suddenly, but before she had had a chance to realise it and properly analyse how she was feeling, she had messed it all up in a moment of impulse. For the first time she found herself wondering how things would be between her and Strike on Monday morning, and how they would now proceed. They would have to find a way back to being colleagues and friends. Was that even possible now?

“Hey, I’m sorry, I was only teasing,” said Ilsa gently, seeing how upset Robin had become. But hope blossomed further in her heart for her friends. “Robin, are you... Do you have feelings for Cormoran?” she asked carefully.

“I don’t know!” wailed Robin. “It’s all so new, and I’ve only been single a few months, and I’m not his type and we’re colleagues and friends and I don’t even know how it happened. But Ilsa, it doesn’t matter anyway,” she continued, miserably. “It would never work between us. I’m nothing like any of the women he’s been out with and I’m miles younger and I’ve only ever had one boyfriend and I just can’t even imagine....” She tailed off. How to put it into words, the fear that had lurked in the back of her mind ever since she and Matthew had split? The fear that one day she might meet someone else and have to embark on a new physical relationship, after only ever being with Matthew. It had taken so long, after she was raped, to feel comfortable with touching, with intimacy, with sex, again. What if it took her that long again with someone new? What a disappointment she would be in the bedroom after the likes of Ciara and Elin. The very thought brought a hot, squirming ball of shame to the pit of her stomach. No, friends they must stay, and she must squash down the attraction and be professional.

Ilsa reached out impulsively and took Robin’s hand across the table. “Hey,” she said gently. “Do you honestly think any of those things would matter to Corm? You must know by now that the grumpy git thing is just an act. He’s a teddy bear really.” And Robin found herself smiling through her unshed tears, knowing what Ilsa said was true. But how could she even begin to explain? She looked into Ilsa’s kind eyes, and saw genuine affection, for Strike and for herself.

Suddenly she found she wanted to talk about it, and amazingly that she could talk about it. It was almost as though Matthew had been the last link to her past, and now that he was gone and she was looking forwards, that past didn’t have such a hold on her any more. She found herself telling Ilsa everything, about the attack at university, and the horror of having to relive it all in court, and Matthew’s gentleness and total understanding of her feelings around sex, and how that had irritated her at the time, and then how she had felt so guilty at feeling angry with him when he was being so kind, and then later had wondered if she had somehow sensed that he had not in fact been waiting patiently but had been sleeping with someone else... And Ilsa listened with kindness and understanding and never a hint of judgement in her face, and the shopping spree was forgotten, and slowly the wine bottle emptied and a row of coffee cups built up and suddenly it was five o’clock and the day was over.

On Sunday Robin had decided that the only way forward with her boss was to be exactly as she was supposed to be, professional and cheerful, and pull herself back onto the straight and narrow and away from the fanciful path she had drifted down in recent weeks, and she resolved to march into the office on Monday morning and play that part until it became the real her.

And it had worked. Until Ilsa had messed it all up, and now here she was hiding in the toilet, knowing she had to go out and face Strike and lay all these things out in the open for him to see.


	4. The Elephant

When Robin emerged with trepidation from her refuge in the loo, she found Strike in the kitchen, opening a second bottle of Doom Bar. Wordlessly he handed her her wine glass, and she gulped half of it hurriedly. Strike raised an amused eyebrow and reached for the fridge. He removed the bottle and topped up her glass.

“So,” he said, finally, leaning his hips back against the counter. It didn’t help that he looked so gorgeous standing there, his presence filling the little kitchen. Robin dragged her eyes away from his frame. “It occurs to me that Ilsa wouldn’t do this unless she was sure she was on to something. And you look guilty as hell. What gives?”

Robin took a deep breath. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I told her about... about the kiss,” she said, forcing herself to acknowledge aloud something neither of them had mentioned in the two weeks since it happened. “But I wasn’t gossiping about us, Cormoran, I swear! We met for shopping the next day, we’d had it planned for ages, and she asked me how you were and I went red and she just knew. But I told her, I told her that nothing could ever come of it, that it was only a tipsy mistake and we’re just friends.” She risked a glance up at his face, expecting anger, but instead he just looked... like he did when he was trying to crack a case. She could practically hear the cogs turning in his brain.

Strike’s heart had plummeted at her declaration that the kiss had been nothing more than an alcohol-fuelled mistake. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. That’s exactly what you said you wanted, to stay friends and colleagues, nothing more. So why the aching disappointment? She looked so beautiful, standing awkward and shy in front of him, a hint of... hope? in her eyes, loose tendrils of red-gold hair that he longed to touch framing her face. Her words and her body language didn’t match up. The calculating part of his brain was still whirring away. Clearly either Ilsa hadn’t believed Robin, or more had been said.

“So why are we here?” he mused, almost to himself as much as to Robin. “Why is she so sure we should... be together? What else did you say?”

Robin blushed to the roots of her hair. She was just going to have to confess all. She took another deep breath, and stared at the floor, and blurted it all out at once before she lost her nerve.

“I told her about the rape, and about how I was afterwards. And I said... I said it took a long time, a really long time, to be able to be with Matthew again. And that I was afraid I’d be the same with... with any new partner, that I didn’t think I was cut out for casual relationships. And that I wouldn’t be able to compare with the likes of...of...” she stumbled to a halt, then forced herself onwards. “With the likes of Ciara Porter, or Elin.” And suddenly those treacherous tears were back, threatening to add to her utter mortification. She stopped, and drew a shaky breath, and took another gulp of her wine.

Suddenly Strike was in front of her, and his hand was on her chin, gently tilting her head to look up at him, and she blinked the tears away and looked into his eyes, expecting... what? Pity? Acceptance that this could never be? But all she saw was tenderness, and something else. Fondness, hope, a mixture of both? He kissed her, gently and sweetly, just a chaste kiss on her lips, and then he stepped back.

Robin stared at him, hardly daring to hope that he might still be interested in her after her confession. A sudden thought seized her - had he known? Had Ilsa told him what she’d said? But no, she was sure Ilsa would not have broken her confidence like that. But...

“Hang on,” she said suddenly. “If I told Ilsa all that, and she’s done this anyway... Have you talked to her too?” And to her amazement and amusement, Strike suddenly blushed himself. She had never seen him look so discomfited.

“Er, no,” he said, slowly. “But would you believe I had a text out of the blue the following Tuesday from Nick, inviting me out for beers after work that Friday? And normally it’s a couple of beers and he’s off home, but he stayed all evening. And he was very interested in how we were getting along.”

“And that didn’t make you at all suspicious that he knew we’d kissed?” asked Robin, incredulous. Strike fidgeted and dropped his own eyes to the floor. God, this was tough. But Robin had been totally honest, so he had no choice but to follow suit.

“No,” he admitted, “because... because Nick and Ilsa already knew how I feel about you.” He took a deep breath himself. “After you and Matthew split up, the last time I went out for a beer with Nick he asked me in a jokey way if I was going to ask you out and I told him not to be so bloody ridiculous. I, er, overreacted rather. So I think he had guessed he was quite near the truth. So this time he pushed harder with the questions, and I said...” - here goes, he thought, all or nothing - “I said that there was no way you’d want to get straight into another relationship, that you’d been stuck with one bloke for almost a decade and should have some time to yourself, to see other guys, to hang out with friends, and...” - another deep breath - “and I didn’t think I’d be able to be just a guy you went out with for a bit, because I already cared about you too much.”

There was a pause. Robin hardly dared breathe. Strike was still looking at the floor. Her thoughts were in turmoil. She felt as though her whole world had been turned upside down and then back upright again in the space of half an hour. She had answered Ilsa’s invitation to a “small gathering” eagerly, looking forward to a last weekend night out before their next round of surveillance ate up every Friday and Saturday night for weeks to come. She had been looking forward to it all day, had arrived happily expecting an evening of chat and good friends and maybe meeting some new people, as Ilsa had been vague about who else was invited. Then there had been a few minutes of worry when it became apparent that she and Strike were in fact the only guests, and she had a sudden fear that she was on some kind of not-very-blind date, followed by outright panic at Ilsa’s announcement that in fact she and Nick were going out for dinner, and Robin and Strike would be dining alone, forced to talk now that Ilsa had shone a huge spotlight on the elephant in the room that they had both been so determinedly ignoring.

So she had been forced to say all the things she had been trying so hard to hide from Strike and, if she was honest, from herself too. That had been awful and mortifying and she had wanted the ground to open and swallow her up. But he hadn’t reacted like she had expected at all, and suddenly she had found herself beginning to hope, and now.... now....

Strike took another deep breath. He could hardly believe what had occurred in the last twenty minutes. The last few months had been so confusing, gradually beginning to believe that he and Robin were drifting towards each other, feeling powerless to stop it despite his fears that it would affect their professional relationship. In fact he had come to realise, if he was honest, that he wanted it to happen, that he was tired of waiting and holding back,hiding how he felt. Then the kiss had happened, and hope had warred against sense in his chest, but the following week Robin was suddenly her professional self again, and so sense had won and he was resigned anew to mere friendship. He had told Nick very firmly in the pub that it was better this way, that business and pleasure shouldn’t mix, then had admitted a couple of beers later that he would have wanted more than Robin could offer anyway. He couldn’t just have a fling with her, he was way beyond that. And now here she was in front of him, admitting that she didn’t want just a fling either. His heart ached for her vulnerability. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms and tell her she had nothing to worry about, that all he wanted was her and he was in no hurry to fall into bed, just to be with her and a part of her life was enough. And apparently she wasn’t running to the hills even after he had declared his feelings for her.

He raised his eyes to look at her, and she was looking right back at him, those blue-grey eyes so cool, but was there a hint of a spark there? He just gazed at her helplessly, unsure what to do next, and her heart melted at the sight of him, normally so sure and confident in all he did, suddenly hesitant. It was his very hesitation that made her suddenly brave, and she set her wine glass down on the counter and stepped up to him, reached up to run her hands through that wild curly hair that she had wanted to touch for so long, and drew his head down so she could kiss him. She could barely believe her own confidence, but this just felt so right, and she knew it was when he gave a groan and wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to deepen the kiss.


	5. Homecoming

Much later, after some laughter (both), a few tears (Robin), a generous helping of shepherd’s pie (Strike) and a smaller one (Robin), another Doom Bar and a glass of wine and a lot of kissing, the new couple were curled up together on the Herberts’ living room sofa. The lamplight illuminated Robin’s red-gold hair and softened Strike’s craggy features, and they just gazed at one another in happiness mixed with disbelief. Strike kept breaking off mid sentence to kiss her again, scarcely able to believe he could do that whenever he liked and that Robin always welcomed it. He had a sudden flash of understanding of Ilsa’s choice of location for her ambush - here they were on neutral ground, private enough to say everything that needed to be said and kiss all they wanted, but decorum dictated that they would go no further than kissing tonight. And Robin must have been pondering on Ilsa’s plan, too, for she suddenly asked,

“Why do you think Ilsa and Nick did this? They could have just told us both what the other one said and told us to get on with it. Why the elaborate plan?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Strike mused. Then suddenly it hit him, the true genius at the heart of the ambush. “I think they knew, or at least Ilsa specifically knew,” he said, slowly, “that the only way we were going to solve this was if you told me everything you told her, which obviously she couldn’t really tell me herself, not all of it...”

“..and you told me everything you’d said to Nick,” finished Robin, realisation dawning. “Which I don’t think you would have unless you had to.”

“Probably not,” Strike admitted, grinning. “Talking about that kind of stuff is not my strong suit.”

His phone pinged and he picked it up, and snorted at the message he read there. “Nick says they’re on their way home and we should make ourselves presentable,” he said, and cast a sly sideways glance at Robin, who found herself blushing again. “Perhaps we could steal a few more minutes of being un-presentable,” he said with a shameless grin, and leaned in to kiss her again, his phone sliding, forgotten, from his hand as Robin sighed against him and responded eagerly to his mouth on hers.

All too soon they heard footsteps on the path outside, and giggling, and then a key in the lock and next moment Ilsa popped her head round the living room door. She took one look at them there, Strike stretched out comfortable and relaxed on the sofa with his arm around Robin who was curled up against him, suddenly blushing again and fighting the urge to hide her flaming face in Strike’s chest, and she punched the air. “I knew it!” she cried. “I get a front row seat at your wedding for this!” And Nick, behind her, rolled his eyes fondly.

“I’d just like to point out that I had considerable reservations about this plan,” he said apologetically, “But I am as delighted as my wife to see that it has in fact worked. Who’s for coffee?” And he disappeared off to the kitchen to start the coffee maker.

“It was never going to fail,” Ilsa said. “I’m a lawyer, remember? I had all the angles covered.” Robin rose reluctantly from the curve of Strike’s arm on the sofa to go and help Nick, grinning at Ilsa as she went past, and Strike stood, too, and gazed down at his old friend.

“Ilsa Herbert, don’t you ever do anything like that to me again,” he growled with mock severity, and then swiftly leaned down and kissed her cheek and whispered, “Thank you.” And he followed Robin out to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when I first wrote this, it ended here. Have a bit more I’ve been working on though that I might add. Mostly smut lol.


	6. Andante, Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Make your fingers soft and light  
> Let your body be the velvet of the night  
> Touch my soul  
> You know how  
> Andante, Andante  
> Go slowly with me now...”  
> \- ABBA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: here be smut ;)

Coffee drunk and dishwasher stacked, cheerful goodbyes said (and a sly wink from Ilsa) and Strike and Robin were strolling to the station in the cool evening air. How many times had they walked together around London’s streets? But this time Robin slipped her hand into Strike’s, lacing her fingers with his, and his heart expanded with happiness. He felt as though he could have ambled along all night hand in hand with this beautiful woman, a slightly goofy smile on his face, still not quite able to believe how his fortunes had turned around in the space of one evening. Robin sighed contentedly and leaned her head on his shoulder.

As their train rattled north, they carried on chatting about this and that, until suddenly Strike looked up, startled. “Damn, we’ve missed your stop,” he said. He’d been determined to walk her to her door properly, but hadn’t been concentrating. Now they’d have to catch the next Tube back in the opposite direction.

“I know,” said Robin, and looked at him sideways through a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her face, and Strike felt his heart lurch and his breath catch in his throat as he realised her meaning.

“Luke’s away on a lads’ weekend so Angela’s in tonight catching up on her TV,” Robin said. “I thought we’d prefer your flat.”

Strike stared at her, speechless for a moment as the train rattled on. “I was going to walk you to your door, and no more,” he said, carefully. “Not that I don’t... But I’m in no rush...” He sighed and ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Christ, I’m crap at this. I just meant I wasn’t going to assume anything, we have plenty of time,” he finished weakly.

“I know,” Robin said again, smiling. “And I’m not making any promises. But even if we only... sleep...” she was slightly pink again now, “then that would be... lovely.”

“God, yes,” Strike breathed, unable to quite believe that this was happening. And then he couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he just sat and gazed at her and tried not to think too much about what lay ahead.

Robin looked back at him, and smiled, and hoped he couldn’t see that she was, in fact, a little nervous. But she would literally trust this man with her life, and she knew that if sleeping was all that was on the cards, he would never pressure her.

So they strolled from Tottenham Court Road station to Denmark Street, and Strike was limping slightly now, Robin noticed, though he tried to hide it. And they made their way up the stairs, and conversation had utterly dried up now at the thought of what was ahead. Strike was hoping Robin wasn’t regretting her decision, but she seemed calm enough, and then they were in the flat that she hadn’t seen since the morning they had received the leg in the post, but it was as tidy and impersonal as ever, though Strike hadn’t been expecting company. Strike filled the kettle and flicked the switch, and then turned to Robin and looked at her.

“I’m going to sit, if you don’t mind,” he said, knowing that she would have noticed him limping. “Leg’s killing me,” and he dropped into the easy chair with a sigh of relief. Robin looked around at the single dining chair, and back at Strike, and suddenly she grinned at him.

“Mind if I share?” she asked, and came and plopped herself down on his lap, much to his surprise and delight. And then she was kissing him again, but suddenly everything was different, here alone in his flat, late at night and dimly lit and intimate, without the boundaries imposed by being in someone else’s house. She kissed him hard and hungrily, and curled her fingers into his hair, and desire erupted in every nerve ending in his body, desire that had so long been denied and held back, even with a reasonable degree of success through the kisses of this evening, safe in the constraints of Nick and Ilsa’s living room. Now her mouth was hot and her tongue thrust forwards, seeking his, and she moaned softly into his mouth. His hands roamed over her back, pulling her closer, and then she was kissing down his jaw and down the side of his neck, her lips trailing over his heated skin, and a groan of pleasure escaped him as she nipped at his collarbone with her teeth. She buried her face breathlessly in his shoulder, where she paused.

“Robin,” Strike said roughly, his voice hoarse with arousal, “you don’t... We don’t have to...”

She raised her head and looked at him, and the breath left his body as he saw the open desire in her eyes, the heat, and just a hint of shyness. The combination took his breath away. He raised his hand, a hand he dimly realised was trembling, to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, and she blushed again.

“So are you,” she said, suddenly grinning, and then frowned when she saw his scornful look. “OK, maybe sexy is a better word,” and she winked at him, and he chuckled. “Cormoran...” she hesitated.

“What is it?” he asked, gently. “Just say, however you want tonight to be, whatever... It’s enough for me just that you’re here, I’m quite happy just to hold you.” Although he knew as she said it that she’d be able to tell from her position on his lap that his body wanted more, he needed her to understand that nothing was assumed, expected.

But Robin knew, and that made her feel safe. And the way he looked at her, his eyes so dark with desire they were almost black, the way he kissed her so reverently, was making her feel more sexy, and more aroused, than she had ever felt in her life. “Can we get into bed?” she asked, and then giggled at the surprise on his face.

“That’s not what I was expecting you to say, but hell, yeah,” he growled, and she giggled again and climbed off his lap and grabbed his hand to haul him up and lead him to his bedroom, to his bed.

After all my worrying, she thought dreamily as she slowly began to unbutton his shirt, while he gazed down at her, utterly still. And yet I didn’t really think it through. I was always trying to imagine how I might sleep with a man, without grasping that if it was specifically this man, this man who I know so well, who is so strong and big and yet also so gentle and sometimes shy, that I wouldn’t be afraid. And then I was worried about how I’d compare to other women, but he looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world, and suddenly none of that matters. She buried her face in his chest, revelling in the soft mat of hair there, breathing his scent, planting small kisses across him and enjoying the catch of his breath as she touched him, the goosebumps that raised under her lips.

His hands came up and cupped the sides of her face, tilting her head up for his kiss, and she leaned in to him as his mouth came down on hers again, hungry but gentle, and heat swept through her as his tongue thrust into her mouth. He broke off to trail kisses across her cheek and behind her ear, and she shivered and clung to him, knees suddenly weak with desire as he buried his nose in her hair, his breathing ragged. His hands slid to the front of her blouse and started to slowly undo her buttons, and he raised his head so he could see what he was doing in the dim light, each button revealing a little more of her to his gaze until he could push the fabric aside. Shyly she glanced up at him, and her breath caught as she saw the expression on his face as he stared at her body, an expression of awe and hunger. His hands came up to cup her breasts through the lace of her bra, thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she gave a soft cry of pleasure and her head fell back as her hips arched in to him, her body seeking the heat of his. He pushed her blouse off her shoulders and it fell to the floor, and then his fingers were wrestling with the button on her trousers, but he fumbled and she realised he was shaking as much as she was. She helped him, undoing them and pushing them down her hips so they could fall to the floor, and she stepped out of them and stood before him in only her underwear.

“God, you’re gorgeous. Come here,” he rasped, and the heat and the roughness in his voice sent a spasm of arousal though her. He backed up and dropped to sit on the bed, pulling her hips towards him and burying his face in her groin, pressing fierce kisses against her through the thin fabric of her knickers, his tongue reaching out to stroke her. Robin cried out in shock and delight, her hips thrusting forward of their own volition. Then she felt the graze of his teeth and her knees buckled and she half fell onto him. She was so aroused that she ached, heat clenching deep in her groin, and now she was straddling him as he sat on the edge of the bed. She could feel his erection, hard through the fabric of his trousers, and she rocked against it, unable to control the desire raging through her body.

Strike’s head dropped back. “Fuck, Robin,” he groaned as she rubbed herself against him. This was going too fast. He wanted to take things slow with her tonight but she felt too good, looked too amazing, and her reaction to him turned him on more than he could have imagined. His erection ached, every nerve ending in his body jangled, tension building in his groin, desperate for release. Now she was grabbing his hair and pulling his head up to kiss him again, hot and hungry, trying to pull him closer.

With a huge effort, Strike slowed the kiss, answering her frantic tongue with gentle sweeps of his own. She moaned against his mouth in frustration, her hips still jerking against him, and he broke off and smiled at the storm in her eyes, his hands sliding to her hips to still her movements. “Slow down,” he whispered, “or this’ll all be over in about two minutes.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded, suddenly a little shy at her reaction to him. “Sorry,” she murmured, her answering smile trembling across her lips. “Got a little carried away there. You’re just so... manly,” she finished helplessly, knowing that wasn’t the right word but unable to express the thought. After the slim, lean smoothness of Matthew, Strike’s bulk, his stubbled jaw, his swathe of body hair, his huge hands, his scent, musky and hot... He was just so masculine, and she was more turned on than she had thought possible. He smelled incredible, felt incredible, looked incredible.

Now he was gently easing her off him, and she moved onto the bed and watched as he removed his trousers and unbuckled his prosthetic leg, then turned to climb into the bed next to her. She had a moment of nerves, but he was suddenly all gentleness and calm. He lay on his side and reached for her and gathered her to him. His embrace felt safe and protective, and she buried her face in his neck.

But he still smelled so amazing, and soon she was kissing and tasting his skin, moving her body against his. The heat between them, that had ebbed back a little, began to rise again. Strike slid his hands over the skin of Robin’s back and down to her hip, stroking and caressing, marvelling at how her skin quivered under his touch. Her hands ran across his chest and stomach, nails grazing lightly through the mat of hair and trailing further down. He gasped and shuddered as her fingers found his erection, tracing its outline through his boxers. Her hand closed around him through the fabric and he moaned softly into her neck, the ache in his groin almost unbearable. He undid the clasp of her bra and pulled it gently from her, and then his mouth was on her, on her collarbone and then kissing his way down across her chest and over the swell of her breast. She sighed with pleasure as he explored her, then gasped with desire as his lips drew on her nipple. Her hands were curled on his back now, her nails raking across his skin and drawing shudders of need from his body. His teeth bit gently at her nipple, and her back arched and she clung to him, breathless. “Cormoran,” she gasped. “Please, just... I want you so much...”

“I want you too,” he groaned, and then he was swiftly pulling off first her underwear and then his own. He paused, uncertain for a moment how she would want to proceed. But she reached for him and pulled his hips towards her, and he found himself over her and above her, her hands on his backside urging him on.

He kissed her and waited until she opened her eyes, and he looked deep into them as he positioned himself against her. “OK?” he asked gently. She nodded wordlessly, and he slowly slid into her, into her slick, tight heat. Her head dropped back, her eyes drifting closed. He was forcing himself to go slowly, although the deep groan she gave as he filled her almost made him lose what little self-control he had left. He paused, deep inside her, the thin thread of his control threatening to snap, her heat all around him felt so good. She opened her eyes, full of hunger as she gazed up at him. He bent his head to kiss her again, deeply and passionately. Then her arms were around him as he began to thrust against her in slow, even strokes.

Strike had dreamed of this moment, of Robin in his bed, and now miraculously she was here and real and moving beneath him, her legs wrapped around him, trying to pull him closer, fingers tangled again in his hair. He watched, entranced, as she writhed beneath him as her tension built, begging him wordlessly for release with soft gasps and moans, and the ache grew within him, electricity buzzing through every nerve, pleasure so great it was almost painful. Then suddenly Robin arched her back, an explosion of pleasure and shock in her eyes, her muscles contracting around him. The feel of her orgasm drove him over the edge too so that they dissolved into bliss together, she uttering cries of amazement and he jerking his hips to hers, groaning out his release before collapsing against her, his breath ragged and his heart thundering.

Robin clung to him, shuddering, and suddenly he realised she was crying. “Robin?” panic in his voice, he pulled back from her. “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“God, no, no,” she snuffled, smiling through her tears and then giggling at the consternation on his face. “Happy tears. Or... just overwhelmed, or... I don’t know where this has come from, sorry. That was just so amazing, so...” She sighed deeply, contentedly. “Ignore me,” she said sniffing. “I’ll pull myself together in a minute. Just hold me, please?”

He rolled onto his back and pulled her with him, and she laid her head on his broad chest, listening to his heart settle back to a normal rhythm and his breathing ease. She wrapped her arms around his warm body, and felt his strong arms around her, and snuffled into his warmth, trying to regain her composure. Before she knew it, she had drifted into sleep, more comfortable and safe and warm and... treasured than she had felt in a very long time.

Strike gently stroked her hair, barely able to comprehend what had just happened, that this incredible, smart, beautiful, strong woman somehow found him so attractive, and had let her guard down completely, let him in, let him love her... Love her? As he lay there in the darkness, with Robin asleep with her head just below his chin and her arm across his stomach, breathing deeply and evenly, Strike realised that he had fallen utterly and totally in love with his partner, and he couldn’t believe that he had been blind to this fact for so long.


	7. Good Morning

Strike woke slowly, morning light slanting through the skylight of his attic flat. Memories drifted back as he rose to consciousness, and he turned his head on the pillow to see Robin curled up next to him, her red-gold hair tangled around her, soft lips parted in sleep. He had never seen anything so beautiful, and he just gazed and gazed at her as she slept. Images from the previous evening drifted through his mind, winding around one another. The way she had kissed him in the Herberts’ kitchen. Her sweet openness as they sat entwined on the sofa, lamp-lit, talking softly and kissing. Her sideways glance at him on the Tube as they sailed past her stop, confident and just a little shy. The slow climb up so many stairs, hand in hand. Her on his lap in the chair, hands in his hair. Leading him to the bedroom. Unbuttoning his shirt, eyes dark with desire. Goosebumps ran across his skin as he remembered her touch, her fierce kisses, the way she had moved beneath him.

He was aroused again just thinking about it, just watching her sleep, here in his bed where he had so often imagined her but never truly dared to hope she could ever be. But she didn’t need to wake to any expectations of his, so he rolled away quietly and sat up, loosely buckled on his prosthetic and made his way to the shower, flicking the switch once again on last night’s forgotten kettle as he passed.

...

The rising sound of the kettle woke Robin, and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she saw she was in Strike’s bed, utterly naked, and was suddenly glad he wasn’t there to see her blush scarlet at the realisation. She remembered last night and how sexy he was and how sexy he made her feel, remembered the smell, the taste, feel of him, how carried away she had been. She remembered him, massive and so gentle, as he moved above her and in her, arching over her, watching her and kissing her. She shivered with desire at the thought.

She could hear the shower running, and sat up and looked around. She had nothing here but the clothes she had worn last night, but her hold-all of spare clothes was just downstairs in the office, stashed there after one too many uncomfortable, damp afternoons at her desk after rainy morning surveillance trips. She grabbed Strike’s shirt from the floor - it was big enough to cover her reasonably decently - and was about to pull it on when an impulse seized her.

Eyes closed under the rushing water, Strike didn’t hear Robin approach, and almost jumped out of his skin when the cubicle door opened. Before he knew what was happening, she had climbed in with him, water cascading over them both, and was grinning cheekily up at his speechless surprise.

“Good morning,” she said, and wrapped her arms gently around him, her hair dark red and wet down her back, her smooth skin wet and slippery on his, and he was aroused again immediately. He reached for the safety rail, afraid of slipping, but Robin just kissed his chest, smiled up at him and grabbed the shampoo. He was mesmerised - somehow, watching her wash her hair was so much more intimate than anything else they might have managed in the small space, and in a couple of minutes she was gone, stealing his towel as she left.

“Oi!” he shouted after her, and she laughed.

“I’ll bring it back!” she called, and sure enough it appeared a couple of minutes later, slung over the door.

Strike emerged from the bathroom to find her gone, and looked around his empty flat in almost comical surprise, for there were her clothes still lying on his bedroom floor where he had dropped them the night before. Then he heard her bare feet padding up the stairs from the office, and she appeared carrying a hold-all and wearing only his shirt, her hair, roughly towel-dried but damp, clinging around her face and making wet streaks on her shoulders. He didn’t think he had ever seen anything so sexy in his life. And Robin couldn’t help but notice how attractive he looked this morning, fresh and relaxed, wild hair somewhat tamed by the water still clinging to it, the dark hair that covered his chest and drew her eye down to where it disappeared beneath the towel slung across his hips... She glanced up and saw that he had seen her looking, and grinned shamelessly at him.

Suddenly Robin threw back her head and laughed, and it was so infectious that he found himself laughing too, though he didn’t know why. “Sorry,” she managed at last, eyes dancing. “But just look at us. Me in your shirt, you in only a very damp towel. Can you imagine if any of our clients could see us, or Wardle...?” and she giggled again at the thought.

Strike grinned at her. “I’m sure most of them think this is happening anyway,” he said. “Now, breakfast. I don’t have much in, I’m afraid, so I think we’ll have to go out.”

“Really?” said Robin, and pouted slightly. She dropped the hold-all and crossed the room to him. “We might at some point get around to making those cups of tea we started on last night.” Her fingers were curling into his damp chest hair, her breath warm on his skin. “And I was hoping to persuade you to come back to bed.” She kissed his shoulder and trailed her lips across the top of his chest, reaching up to gently pull his head down so that she could kiss her way up the side of his neck to his ear. Strike groaned and buried one hand in her damp hair, the other curling round her back to pull her closer, so sexy in his shirt that barely covered her arse.

“Oh, it won’t take much to persuade me,” he said, his voice rough with desire, “but Robin, we don’t have to...”

She kissed him on his mouth to stop him talking, then pulled back for a moment to look into his eyes, and saw the confusion there.

“Cormoran, it’s OK,” she said. “I know what I said last night, about being worried, and I was. But it’s you,” she said simply. “I’m not afraid of anything with you. And last night was perfect, just perfect, and you were so gentle and slow and it was amazing and exactly how I would have wanted our first time to be. But...” and she knew she was going pink again - ridiculous to feel shy after all that had happened in the last twelve hours - “But I also fancy the pants off you, and you don’t have to be so gentle every time, or feel that you have to hide that you want me. I want... I want everything, with you, I want to explore, to...” and she broke off, unsure how to express what she meant, that she didn’t want him to always hold back, afraid of hurting or frightening her. That she didn’t want another relationship shadowed by her past, always constrained.

He smiled at her tenderly, and kissed her, and she knew he understood. Then he grinned and said, “Right, back to bed it is. And I’m going to find every bit of you I didn’t kiss last night.”


	8. Perfect

Robin awoke to the sound of Strike murmuring her name and the feel of his stubble against her shoulder. She was sprawled face down across his bed, relaxed and satisfied, and realised she had no idea how long she had been asleep.

“What time is it?” she asked, sitting up. Her hair, that she had never dried properly, was dishevelled and all around her face. Strike smiled fondly at her unkempt confusion.

“Mid afternoon, three-ish,” he said, “and I’m seriously starving. We need to go out and find food. Fancy a late lunch somewhere?”

“Mm,” she agreed, trying to push her hair back from her face and frowning at just how messy it was. “I hope there’s a brush in that hold-all.” She clambered off the bed and went to retrieve it, still lying where she had dropped it that morning. Strike watched her openly, admiring the curves of her body, naked in his flat. She brought the hold-all back to the bedroom and saw him watching her, and she smiled, then flushed as she remembered all that had gone on since their shower this morning. He had, as promised, kissed every part of her, and she shivered as she remembered the feel of his stubble against her skin, his tongue...

“I think I might need another shower,” she said, and he grinned at her. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ve had one, but I could do with a shave. Sorry I woke you, but I didn’t want to go out without you.”

“Big softie,” she said, and he chucked a pillow at her. She laughed and headed back to the little bathroom.

Half an hour later, they emerged into the afternoon sun, blinking a little and trying to decide where to go.

“Well, there’s only one choice, surely?” Robin said. “The Tottenham! All milestones must be marked there,” and Strike laughed, remembering his resolve to avoid the place in the awkwardness of last night. Was it really only last night? This time yesterday, he’d still been just him, ignoring how he felt about Robin, refusing to think about their kiss and cursing his imagination for filling his dreams with fantasies of the partner who clearly didn’t see him in the same way, or so he’d thought. And now... now he’d been allowed, indeed encouraged, to explore every inch of her delectable figure, and his body was sated, still gently humming from the pleasure of her touch, from the hours they had spent entwined in one another, exploring and enjoying.

“The Tottenham it is,” he said. They strolled along in the sunshine, the street mercifully free of the constant construction noise that filled it during the week, though bustling with shoppers.

They found a table in the corner of the pub, and Strike fetched drinks and menus. “Chips!” said Robin. “Whatever I order, it’s got to come with chips. I seem to have burned off rather a lot of calories since last night.” She winked at him saucily and he laughed. Suddenly he felt his heart might burst with happiness. You soppy old sod, he thought to himself, and grinned at her.

Food ordered, they sat and waited and chatted. Robin got her phone out. “Think I might text Ilsa,” she said. “She’s far too polite to ask, but she’ll be dying to know how things are going.”

“How much detail are you planning on giving her?” Strike demanded, and Robin chuckled.

“All she needs to know,” she said, and just sent a row of hearts. The answer came back almost immediately, as if Ilsa had pounced on her phone - a row of exclamation marks. Robin laughed. “We owe her a bottle of wine,” she said. “Would we ever have got here on our own?”

Strike looked thoughtful. “Maybe, eventually,” he said. “But not for a really long time. I couldn’t see a way to get there without risking fucking everything up, and I wasn’t sure it was a good idea anyway. We still have a business to run.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that,” said Robin. “We need ground rules, keep things separate.”

“No sex on your desk, then?” asked Strike, feigning disappointment, and she flushed scarlet and laughed, shocked.

“Absolutely not!” she said. “Is... is that something you’ve thought about?” He had the grace to flush slightly.

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “It’s never occurred to you?”

“No!” said Robin, scandalised. Then she pretended to consider. “Now, your desk, maybe. It’s bigger and sturdier.” She glanced at him sideways, slyly, and his breath caught in his chest.

“Jesus, Robin,” he breathed. “Every time I think I must surely have had my fill of you, you somehow turn me on again.” She felt an answering stab of arousal at his words, at the look in his eyes.

“Well, you’ll get no more until I’ve had food,” she said, primly. He grinned.

The food arrived, and was eaten, but they found themselves in no hurry to leave. The conversation drifted along, darkness began to fall, and Strike was suddenly reminded of the evening two weeks ago that had started all this, when he had been so entranced by her. I should have known then that I was in love with her, he thought. She looked as beautiful tonight, but subtly different. Relaxed in a different way, so physically comfortable with him. Only he would notice, but her lips were a little swollen from how much he had kissed her, and her hair was still slightly unruly, untamed by a hair dryer that she would have used at home but which Strike did not possess. A few strands escaped here and there from the ponytail she had tried to shove it all into. Her voice was deeper, just a touch, and her giggles throatier. She looked glorious, and he was captivated anew.

“God, I love you,” he suddenly blurted into a gap in the conversation, and Robin’s eyes widened with shock. He was horrified, frozen for a moment, had totally not expected the words to escape him, but then he saw her eyes soften, and suddenly she was smiling at him so happily.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, and he seized her hand from the table and kissed the back of it as he had done so many months ago, and just grinned at her like an idiot.

They drifted back to his flat in a haze of happiness.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really actually finished now. Have some more bits in the works, we need more Ilsa <3


End file.
